Expecting
by EclipseKlutz
Summary: [post ch58] Ryuuzaki, your crazy must have been contagious... RaitoxL if you squint.


**Expecting  
****By EclipseKlutz**

**PG, K+**(ish)  
**Drama/Angst**—_Raito/L if you really want it to be_

**Disclaimer: **I have a whole bunch of "if I" scenarios, but I'll spare you the torture and skip to the part where I own nothing.

**Spoilers: **Chapter 58

**A/N: **Alright, this is my first escapade in the _Death Note _fandom and, unfortunately, it's a 2am-er. I'm actually sort of fond of it though, even though it more or less abandoned its original plot somewhere along the way. Oh well—the great thing about drabbles is that definite plots cease to exist.

**-:-**

He still expects to wake up to the smell of tea and shortcake. He still expects to go to sleep with the warmth of another body beside him. He expects to be positioned before a computer for twenty-three hours a day, analyzing data he's already considered dozens of times as the detective loudly devours mountains of sugar behind him. He expects to feel a tugging at his wrist every time said detective moves, and he still keeps his left arm as far from him as possible. He still expects to turn around and see insomnia-stained eyes considering him.

And sometimes he does.

He blinks twice and shakes his head, blaming it on lack of sleep and nothing else. He tells himself that his adversary's sleeping habits rubbed off on him—that the past month of restless nights was the result of habit, not his buzzing mind. He assures himself that he feels nothing, that he _regrets _nothing—least of all this.

The corners of his mouth tug upwards in a cynical smile as he rolls off of his bed and onto the floor. Such an undignified position for a god, and yet he tolerated it for a memory. Running a hand through his messy hair, he mutters to the air, "Ryuuzaki, your crazy must have been contagious…"

He stretches his legs and stares ahead, eyes focused on the wall yet seeing instead the man he was talking to, "But your crazy was something interesting." His cheerless smile gives way to a slight frown, "Interesting and infuriating. I would have throttled you with my own bare hands had you not already made it impossible…"

The words trailed off on their own, without his realizing it—his mind too far lost in rough recollections to register the fuzzier details of the real world. It's almost depressing that he should become so much like L after the man's death, and that he may have…

A small, morose laugh issues from his throat and, again, he shakes his head.

"If it'd been under different circumstances, we might have been friends," he says, voice loud but tone distant—suddenly caught on a realization he'd been too ignorant to realize before. At length, he continues, "But we were friends, weren't we? You… I thought you were still playing cat and mouse… but you meant that, didn't you?"

The persisting silence of the room disappointed him. But he hadn't been expecting a response, had he? Was he truly waiting for his mental image of L to suddenly speak to him in words not fabricated in his own mind? L's crazy _was _contagious, if that was the case.

He hesitates, "I don't regret it."

He wonders absently if he's just pressing for an answer. Pushing buttons and prying until finally L's patience snaps and he speaks. He wonders if that's all he wants—to hear L's voice—does he miss the demure sound, or the person accompanying it?

"I don't regret killing you," he says again, speaking as much to himself as he is to L.

The silence continues and he groans, burying his head in his hands as though he might forget everything if he can't see.

"But _I _didn't kill you," he declares quietly. "Rem killed you… I just pulled the strings. Should I regret that?"

He reaches up to rub at his eyes—raw and bloodshot from so little sleep and so much abuse in between. They aren't rimmed in black like L's were, nor nearly as wide as his… but they are a constant reminder. Somehow, though, the silence is more agonizing—

"God damnit, L, _answer me_!"

He sits there, waiting, and he speaks not one word more—instead listening to his own heavy breathing, measuring the ragged patterns. Maybe L _is _there, listening to his one-sided conversation—it would explain why he thinks he feels L's presence, but then, he always does. Maybe L is laughing at him, because even in death and before the end, he has managed to win.

Raito frowns and closes his eyes, expecting. He still expects to feel the light pressure of L's hand as it rests on his shoulder. He still expects to have reason to complain about the fridge's contents consisting primarily of sugar and yet more sugar. He still expects time to turn back, to tell L what only occurred to him too late. He still expects a response, and it refuses to come.


End file.
